A Fatherly Christmas
by Mandelene
Summary: Alfred and Matthew are two orphaned children who were raised by Santa and his elves. Now, they're out searching for their long-lost father in New York City. Unfortunately, it seems as though he's not nearly as thrilled to see them as they are. (Based on the movie Elf, one-shot).


**Author's Note:** Hey, everyone. This story was requested by icicle223 on Tumblr (if you'd like to request a fic, my username is the same on tumblr as it is here). And I know you guys must be thinking, "But mandelene, it's not even Christmas anymore!" Well, I have a procrastination problem, okay? I try my best but sometimes I just want to play Animal Crossing New Leaf or Pokemon. I can't help it.

I hope you can still enjoy the fic despite my incompetence!

* * *

This is it. He's finished. He's going to have to spend the rest of his days panhandling. He had one job—make Jack come out of the darned box successfully, and do it enough times throughout the day to make the supply meet the demand—and he couldn't even do that. He's let down everyone, including himself, and Christmas is going to be a bitter reminder of how inept he is at all things remotely related to the holidays.

"Mattie, tell me I'm not a failure."

"What happened?"

"Tell me I'm not a failure!"

"Okay, you're not a failure. Now, what happened?"

Alfred throws himself onto his bed with a dreary sigh, and one of the jingle bells on the cuff of his left sleeve comes flying off and lands on the wooden floor with a _plonk_. What hasn't happened? Everything is falling apart, and he can't do anything right anymore.

"I didn't meet my toy-making quota again. The elves are gonna make me start sweeping the floors again, and that's so _booooring_!" Alfred explains, covering his head with a pillow. "I don't fit in anywhere, Mattie, and I always find a way to mess things up. Don't you ever get the feeling like we don't belong here?"

Matthew shakes his head and rolls his eyes, busying himself with putting together a gingerbread house. He's using green jellies to make the scaffolding for the roof. "You're being dramatic. So what if you have to sweep some floors? That doesn't sound so bad. You're being ungrateful. Santa lets us live here at the North Pole with him even though we're not elves, and all you can think about is how you don't like this place. We wouldn't have anything without Santa."

"I know that, but still…I feel like we're not welcome here sometimes. You should see some of the looks the elves give me when they think I can't see them. They don't like having two humans around."

"That's not true."

"Yes, it is!" Alfred insists, removing the pillow from his head and sitting up. "Don't you wonder what it would be like to live with other humans? Don't you think about how things could have been different if we hadn't accidentally ended up here after we were taken from the orphanage?"

"No, I don't wonder."

"…We have to have some kind of family, don't we? I bet Santa would know."

"Alfred, let it go."

"No! I think we have a right to know where we come from and who our family is! In fact, I'm gonna march right down to Santa's office and make him tell me everything, or else I'm running away from the North Pole forever!" Alfred decides, springing out of bed and storming out of the room as Matthew is adding the final green jelly candy to the gingerbread house.

Matthew clicks his tongue, mentally debates whether or not it would be wise to follow Alfred and calm him down, and then decides against it.

Santa can deal with him.

* * *

As it turns out, Santa isn't exactly the easiest person to track down. He's understandably a bit busy this time of year, so when Alfred shows up to his office, the elven secretary at the head desk asks him to state the purpose of his visit and approximately how long he thinks their conversation will take. Even in the North Pole one has to put up with bureaucracy.

Alfred cheekily says that he's here to discuss a serious family matter and that he expects it'll take "an entire holly, jolly Christmas" to resolve.

After devouring three candy canes and almost an entire bag of peppermint nougats, Santa graces him with his presence and calls him in to talk.

"What's the problem this time, Alfred?" Santa asks with a little sigh, and Alfred takes offense to this because it's not like he bothers the man _that_ often.

He sits in the crimson velvet chair waiting for him and crosses his legs as he makes himself comfortable because he's got a lot to get off of his chest. "I want to find my family."

Santa's shoulders tense up and his back straightens, clearly taken by surprise. "Why all of the sudden?"

"Don't I have a right to know?"

"Alfred, you and your brother were brought here from an orphanage."

"I know but that doesn't mean we don't have parents. You know something. You've always known something that you haven't told Mattie and me. Maybe Mattie's in denial about it, but I don't need anybody protecting me anymore. I don't belong here. There's someplace else I have to be, and I don't know where that place is yet, but it's definitely not here," Alfred explains, breathing a little quicker as he lets everything out into the open and waits for Santa to yell at him to go back to toy-making and to stop asking so many questions.

But Santa rarely loses his temper, and now is no exception. He just nods his head, peers at Alfred with twinkling eyes, and says, "I knew this day would come, and so, I'll tell you everything I know."

It actually worked.

"You and Matthew were put up for adoption by your mother when you were just a few months old. She passed away shortly afterward from illness. Your father, however, is very much alive."

Alfred jumps out of his seat and leans over the desk. "Where is he?"

"In New York City with other humans like you. He works in an office in the Empire State Building. Except, there's one problem…You see, your mother never told him she was bearing children. Therefore, your father has no idea you or your brother exist…If you want to get into contact with him, it's not going to be easy. He's not exactly the most level-headed human when it comes to these sorts of things."

Alfred lets all of this sink in and worriedly nibbles on his bottom lip. "He's not a bad person, is he? Don't…Don't tell me he's on the naughty list."

Santa puts his qualms to rest by saying, "He's not a bad person—just misguided."

"Oh…"

"That said, he _is_ on the naughty list."

Alfred's heart splits in two and drops to the bottom of his chest. He's spent many nights staring out his bedroom window and up at the starry sky, wondering about his parents. He's always imagined them as heroic and beautiful and full of love. It never crossed his mind that his father could be on the naughty list! How awful!

"I think it would be good for you and Matthew to see him. I can lend you my spare sleigh, and you can take Comet and Cupid with you. The humans in New York won't take kindly to seeing a sleigh in the middle of the day, so you'll have to get there at the crack of dawn and try to stay discreet," Santa warns, already planning ahead.

This is all too much. Alfred's head is spinning when Santa hands him the keys to the sleigh along with an old photograph of a dapper young man standing next to an elegant woman in a fur coat. They have their arms around each other and seem happy. On the back of the photograph, someone has scrawled in blue ink, " _Arthur Kirkland and Francine Bonnefoy in Central Park."_

His parents…For the first time, Alfred can see what they look like—or once looked like. It's surreal, and he stares at the picture for a long while, unable to look away. He has his mother's eyes, and so does Mattie, but Mattie's got their mother's wavy locks while Alfred has his father's choppy and perpetually messy hair.

He has wondered so long, and now he finally has some answers—answers that he's honestly afraid of.

Santa squeezes his shoulders and adds, "It'll be okay, otherwise, I wouldn't let you go. Who knows? Maybe you'll like New York much more than the North Pole. Now, be gentle with your father—he's going to need some time…Oh, you're growing up so fast, you know. Look at you—almost an adult!"

Alfred wipes furiously at his eyes and wrenches himself away from Santa's grip. He feels lied to—betrayed, even. If Santa knew about this all of these years, why did it take him so long to reveal the truth? He thought he could trust Santa. The old man shouldn't be capable of doing any wrong, but now Alfred sees that no one can be trusted. Human or not, everyone and everything in this world can hurt you.

He storms out of Santa's office and back to the dormitory he shares with Matthew, tears dripping from his chin and landing on the crisp snow beneath his feet. Things can never be the same now that he knows his true past.

"Al? Are you okay? What happened? Did you talk to Santa?"

Alfred clears his throat roughly, sniffles, and says, "Pack your things. We're going to New York in the morning."

* * *

Good riddance to this place. He's not going to miss it. Everything about this so-called utopia is a ruse. Goodbye to Santa's workshop, the toy-making factory, the frozen lake, Ginger's candy store, and most of all, the darned elves. The more Alfred thinks about it, the more he hates everything and everyone. His heart just keeps bubbling up with more and more anger until he feels sick to his stomach and wishes he could burn the whole place down.

"Uhh, Alfred? Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, I want to meet Dad as much as you do, but…leaving home is hard, you know?"

"Hurry up, and let's go."

"Oh, I know you're upset, and I am, too, but come on, we've spent almost our whole lives here. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"No."

"Whatever. I can see that it's going to be impossible to talk to you today," Matthew huffs as he double-checks to make sure they haven't forgotten anything and that their belongings are safely tied down to the sleigh. "Ready to go?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

Matthew gives Comet and Cupid a good petting and then hops into the sleigh, pushing Alfred to the passenger's side while he takes up the driver's side.

"Hang on! Why do you get to steer the sleigh?"

"Because I'm obviously the more responsible one here, and I don't want to die before we make it to New York, thanks."

"I'm responsible!"

Matthew snorts with laughter and rolls his eyes, unconvinced. Before Alfred can get in another word of protest, they start their ascent, and Alfred doesn't dare to look back. Some of the anger in his chest burns itself out and is replaced by excitement. He's never been around a whole city full of humans before. What's the first thing he should do when he gets there? What's Dad going to say? Maybe they'll go ice skating and eat sugar plums and be free to do whatever they want for the first time ever!

"Are we there yet?" Alfred asks impatiently. All he can see before him is a haze of clouds and snow. How does Matthew even know if they're going the right way?

"Does it look like we're there yet? We've only been flying for five minutes."

"Can't this thing go any faster?"

"Be quiet, or I'm turning this sleigh around!" Matthew threatens, and Alfred lets out a little grumble of complaint but tries his best to be quiet and patient. It's so hard to sit still when his mind is thinking about all of the amazing things they'll get to do when they're in New York. What are the people like? What's there to do for fun? Is there snow?

As usual, Alfred spends most of the journey eating snacks he packed with him—gummy bears, sour worms, more candy canes and peppermint nougats, and, most importantly, some chocolate chip cookies. Does Dad like peppermint nougats? They're an acquired taste.

A few hours into the trip, just as they're about to reach their destination, Matthew taps him on the shoulder and says in a panicky voice, "We've got a problem. I don't know how to say this, but umm, we're gonna crash."

And sure enough, the sleigh starts descending rapidly, and Alfred grips the edges of his seat, eyes widening. "What did you do, Mattie? Where are we?"

"U-Umm, umm!" Matthew stammers, getting tongue-tied as he desperately tries to help Comet and Cupid regain control of the sleigh. "Central Park, I think! Hang on and watch your head!"

Matthew detaches Comet and Cupids' reigns so they don't crash along with them, and several seconds later, the sleigh collides with the ground below with a horrific crack as it falls straight through the branches of some trees and lands on a snow-covered hill. Alfred and Matthew both scream at the same time, and they go tumbling out of the sleigh and down the hill before finally stopping on a winding asphalt path.

"Agh!" Alfred cries out before painfully sitting up and making sure he hasn't lost any limbs. Some snow and dirt manage to stain his toy-making uniform. When he looks to his right, he sees that Comet and Cupid are just fine and are grazing on some grass a few yards away. To his left, Matthew is sprawled out on the ground. "Mattie? You okay?"

"Y-Yeah, fine. Just shaken up," Matthew mumbles, rubbing his head.

They spot a guy jogging with his dog a short distance away, and although he widens his eyes and looks over at them, he quickly averts his gaze and runs off, probably thinking he imagined it all.

Good. They don't need anybody knowing too much about the North Pole. Most humans aren't that great at understanding Santa Claus and his elves anyway. They'd probably get violent and frustrated—that's all humans are good for sometimes.

"All right, let's get moving," Matthew sighs, giving Comet's nose a good rub. "We can't take the reindeer much farther from here, but I did some research before we went out on this crazy trip and found out Central Park has horses and carriage rides for the tourists. Comet and Cupid should fit in well enough, don't you think? If we leave them here, they'll blend in…I hope. We'll come back for them."

Cupid makes a noise of complaint, but really, there isn't any other option. They can't just go flying down Broadway with two reindeer. Sure, stranger things have happened, but they don't want the human government getting involved or anything. That'd really mess up relations between the North Pole and U.S., and it might really put a damper on Christmas this year.

So, minds made up, they bid farewell to Comet and Cupid for the time being and start walking out of the park and toward the street. The meandering paths of Central Park are confusing, but following the sound of nearby traffic works well in orienting them, and soon enough, they're amongst the hustle and bustle of other humans.

"Wow," Alfred says, craning his neck so far back that it pains him. "Look how big these buildings are! And look at the yellow taxis—I've only seen them in pictures! If we have time, can we go and see—wait! Do you smell that? Mmm, hotdogs! Let's stop and get some, Mattie!"

Matthew rolls his eyes and grabs onto Alfred's arm, guiding him like a parent trying to maintain control over their hyperactive four-year-old. "No, Al. We can't get distracted, okay? We're getting on the subway and taking it downtown to the Empire State Building where Dad works, and we're not taking any detours.

The sooner we say hi to Dad, the sooner I can go home."

"Laaaaame! You're no fun. Did you say subway? I've always wanted to ride a train in New York! This is so awesome! I think I'm gonna explode!"

"Yeah, well, how about you don't do that?"

* * *

"Sir, I spoke to Mrs. Bloomenthal on the phone, and she asked to leave this message with you."

Arthur Kirkland is not a happy man, especially not today—not when he's had to read garbage prose all morning without a single glimmer of hope in sight. He _has_ to sell a book, but none of these disgusting excuses for manuscripts are worthy of ever seeing the light of day let alone of being inaugurated into the publishing world.

"What does that hag want now?" he asks his secretary scornfully, tossing aside yet another half-baked first draft of some sort of mystery novella.

"Something about meeting your quota for—are you all right, sir? Can I get you anything?"

"Yes. You can get me some gin and a hammer with which I can beat myself over the head."

"Sir…"

"If I have to read one more line about a widow falling madly in love with her yoga instructor, I may have to hand in my letter of resignation," he growls, throwing his head against the back of his desk chair. "Isn't there at least a single person in this city who can tell a decent story?"

The sound of a separate conversation fills his office, and he furrows his brows, listening in on what's happening out in the hallway.

 _"Al, you're such a child! I told you not to press all of the buttons!"_

" _But they were so shiny!"_

 _"We had to ride that elevator up to the fortieth floor, and it took us forever because you thought it would be funny if we stopped at every floor along the way!"_

 _"It's not a big deal."_

 _"Don't talk to me. I hate you."_

 _"You always say that."_

Arthur swipes a hand over his aching head, ears and asks, "What the hell is going on out there?"

His secretary sheepishly draws her shoulders up, cowering, and says, "I'll take care of it."

There's silence once more, and he sighs, debating whether or not he should take an early lunch break just so he can put some distance between himself and this literary wasteland.

But then, there's a knock on his door, and his secretary returns, peeking her head in.

"Yes? What is it now?"

"Uhh, sir, I think someone sent you a Christmas telegram."

"A _what_?"

"I'll send them in."

"Wait—!"

Two twin boys around the age of sixteen come parading into his office a second later. They're dressed in odd costumes—a mess of red, green, and gold. Are they supposed to be elves or something? Please, don't let this be some kind of elaborate story pitch. It there's one tale worse than the widow pining over her yoga instructor, it's a damned Christmas story.

"Dad! We came all the way here to find you!" one of the boys shouts as he walks in, arms enthusiastically spreading open like a bird's wings.

"You both look like you came from the North Pole," Arthur says, trying to be good-humored about this. He's at the end of his rope, and well, he might as well submit to this insanity before it finally kills him so that he can have a few final moments of peace.

"That's _exactly_ where we came from," the same boy says, so excited he can barely stay in one place for too long. "Santa must have called you!"

"Of course, he just got off the phone with me," Arthur continues with almost lethal sarcasm.

"Y-You don't recognize me...I mean, how could you? We were put in an orphanage when we were babies, and you didn't even know we were born! So, that's why we're here now. Francine Bonnefoy had us. I'm Alfred and that's my twin brother Matthew."

What?

"F-Francine? How do you know—?"

The boy, Alfred, takes a photograph out of his pocket and holds it out to him.

Arthur swallows hard and looks down, and—what kind of sick practical joke is this?

"Where did you get that? Who gave it to you?" Arthur demands, pinning Alfred against the nearest wall.

Alfred gasps, and his twin, Matthew, makes feeble attempts to yank Arthur off of him.

"Santa gave it to me."

Enough already. Arthur's tempted to call the police.

"Is this some sort of game to you? What do you want? Money?"

"No, we just wanted to meet you, and we thought you'd want to meet us," Alfred says, shrinking back a little. "Santa warned us that you wouldn't believe us. He also said you're not a bad person. Do you need a hug?"

Okay, that's it. He's leaving. Forget this job. He hated it anyway, and he loathes every pretentious nitwit who ever came into this office, insisting time and time again that they had just written the next great American fiction novel. Oh, and he's taking this damned picture with him. He should really call the police and file a report, but he can't be bothered. As long as these children leave him alone, they can all forget this ever happened.

But just as he's about to walk away, the other boy, Matthew, stands in front of him, blocking his only exit, and when Arthur steadies a glare at him, he is met with the bluest eyes he's seen since…Francine.

"Wait. We know this sounds crazy, and of course, you're not going to believe us right away, but how else would we have this picture? Please, just hear us out. We can explain everything," Matthew says carefully, speaking in such a way that it's almost impossible _not_ to listen to him.

Arthur takes one more glance at the photograph and then at the two boys before him. Regardless of what's going on here, it'll be an interesting story to tell someday, and hell, maybe he'll write his own novel after not having written for fifteen years.

He shoos his secretary out, shuts the door, and invites these strange boys to have a seat. Something tells him they're going to be here a while.

"It makes sense why he's on Santa's naughty list now," Alfred whispers, and Matthew promptly jabs him in the ribs with his elbow.

* * *

Could it be true? Those eyes—they remind him of art galleries and macarons. Sewing machines and vintage dresses. Soft kisses late at night. Walking along the Seine.

But then…

Bickering that turned into matches over who could fire the most powerful insults. Toxicity. One day, she just got up and vanished. Arthur wasn't sure why at first—was too angry and heartbroken to ask why. The truth came out eventually, of course. She had been ill. Gravely ill, and she didn't want to tell him—the infuriating woman! He could have done something, or, at the very least, been there for her. Did she really think he wouldn't care after all of the time they spent together? Their quarrels and differences were minuscule in retrospect. They could have made up. He…He could have cherished her before her death. He didn't find out she was gone until after the fact—from her cousin. A cousin he barely knew, mind you. How could she do that to him?

And then, before all of that, she had children? Why on earth didn't she say anything? A man has a right to know if he's a father or not!

Then again, that part is still unconfirmed, but only momentarily. Once Matthew is done telling his side of the story, Arthur is left feeling as though he hasn't been told everything. For one, why are they wearing elf costumes? And why does Alfred keep insisting they're from the North Pole? Clearly, the poor lad is delusional. Perhaps it's from some sort of trauma. Alfred has had such a difficult past that he's imagining a utopia for himself where Santa is real and acts as the father figure he never had growing up.

How dreadfully awful.

He can investigate Alfred's mental state further at a later date. For now, he calls an old acquaintance from his young adulthood (a time when he spent most of his days drinking away his sorrows) and gets Alfred and Matthew to follow him to the man's practice so that they can scientifically address this once and for all through a paternity test. This acquaintance of his is Dr. Gilbert Beilschmidt. He's an established pediatrician now, but back in the day, it was hard to believe Gilbert would ever stop drinking beer and partying long enough to study for his MCATs.

When they walk into the brightly colored doctor's office, which is filled to the brim with sniveling children, Arthur feels his migraine increase tenfold. It doesn't help that Alfred seems to be making it his goal to continuously annoy him.

"Can we make gingerbread houses and eat cookie dough?"

"Alfred, don't," Matthew says, trying to get him to calm down.

"And go ice skating—?"

Arthur scowls and sits down next to a drippy-nosed five-year-old. Fortunately, he doesn't have to endure the child's presence for long because the wait is only fifteen minutes, and soon, he's storming down the corridor with Alfred and Matthew in tow. For a while there, he thought he was reaching some sort of stage of acceptance about Alfred and Matthew being his children, but now, he's right back to denial and anger.

"Hey! Look who it is!" Gilbert exclaims when he sees him, shaking his hand. "How are the books coming along?"

"Don't ask, please."

"Ooh, touchy issue? All right, I hear we've got a little situation on our hands—trying to figure out who the baby daddy is, huh?" Gilbert teases, and Arthur is tempted to kick him.

Alfred and Matthew both sit on the crinkly paper of the examination table, and Alfred quickly asks, "Are we sick?"

"Yes, in more ways than one," Arthur huffs.

Alfred's inquisitive hands find a jar of cotton balls on a nearby counter, and he takes one of them, squishing it between his fingers before attempting to put it in his mouth.

"Don't eat that! It's not food!" Arthur fumes, ripping it out of his grasp.

"Not gonna lie, I've tried one of those before. Don't taste nearly as great as they look," Gilbert consoles Alfred before taking an alcohol swab and disinfecting the boy's index finger. "Hold still for a sec, kid."

"Why?"

"We're doing a test."

"Test for what?"

"To find out whether or not Arthur has been naughty or not," Gilbert jokes, snickering even harder when Arthur gives him a strong shove. "Apparently, he can't even keep track of his kids at this rate."

"He's on the naughty list," Alfred notes.

"Is he, now? I'm not surprised."

"Al, stop talking," Matthew pleads, embarrassed on behalf of his brother.

"What? That's what Santa said when—Owww!" Alfred suddenly screeches as a needle breaks through the sensitive pad of his finger.

"Sorry, kid," Gilbert apologizes, collecting a small sample of his blood before putting a bandage over the area. "Worst part's over."

Matthew, on the other hand, doesn't even flinch when some blood gets drawn from his index finger.

"Show off," Alfred accuses.

Gilbert takes Arthur's blood as well and then throws his pair of blue nitrile gloves in the nearest bin and says, "I'll send this out to the lab. We should have the results in twenty-four hours. I'll call you."

Arthur pales. "Twenty-four hours? What am I supposed to do until then?"

"That's up to your discretion," Gilbert replies with a little shrug of his shoulders. "If you ask me, they're clearly your kids. I mean, just look at them."

So, he's stuck with them, and that's it? They're essentially strangers!

"I'm just supposed to invite them into my home?"

Gilbert chuckles. "Or, you could build them a dog house."

"I'm glad you find this amusing."

"And I'm glad you're _soooo_ grateful that I decided to help out. No problem, Arthur. Anytime. Anything for a friend. Now, if it's okay with you, I have to go and diagnose some cases of strep. If I'm lucky, I won't get bitten by any kids today. Merry Christmas, everyone."

* * *

Matthew knows he has to bide his time with telling Arthur about Santa Claus and the North Pole and all of the other concepts that must seem farfetched to the man at the moment. It'd be a lot easier to win over his trust if Alfred would stop squandering his attempts, but, nonetheless, Arthur must be at least a little convinced because he brings them to his apartment on the Lower East Side and tells them they'll have to share the couch in the living room for the night, as he really doesn't have the proper space to accommodate them.

But that's fine, and neither Matthew or Alfred complain about the arrangement. Besides, this apartment is bigger than what they've become accustomed to in the North Pole anyway.

When they've settled in somewhat, Arthur awkwardly stands in the doorway of the living room and asks, "Can I get you boys anything? Tea or something to eat?"

"Do you have any hot chocolate?" Alfred asks, eyes still shining bright with excitement.

"I'll see what I can do. Matthew?"

"I'm fine for now, thank you…You have a large collection of books. Have you read them all?"

Arthur turns his attention to the bookcases lined up against the wall that Matthew is referring to and says, "Yes, I have. My job requires that I do a lot of reading, and well, I guess everything has piled up over the years."

"Are these books you helped get published?"

"Yes, some of them."

"Would you mind if I looked through a few?"

"Not at all," Arthur assures, loosening up a bit at long last. Maybe there's a chance they'll get through to the man after all.

He goes off into the kitchen, leaving Alfred and Matthew to continue taking stock of the living room. Matthew ventures walking up to one of the bookcases and lets his fingers graze over some of the book bindings.

"Do you think Comet and Cupid are okay?" Alfred asks, breaking him out of his trance.

"Yeah. They'll be fine. Santa will want them back soon," Matthew replies, still lost in admiring the books. He spots a photo album among them, and he carefully pulls it out, checking first to make sure Arthur isn't in sight.

"We need Comet and Cupid. How else are we going to convince Arthur that we're the real deal? If he sees them with his very own eyes, he's got to believe us, right?"

Matthew drops the photo album and watches it fall with a thud onto the floor, suddenly stunned. "I should have—! Why didn't I think of that sooner? Stay here, I'm going to get them, and I'll be back."

"Shouldn't you tell Arthur you're leaving first?"

But Matthew is already out the door.

* * *

What is he going to do once all of this gets cleared up? Go back to his normal life or be forced to piece together the life he left behind long ago? What if he actually is a father? How is he supposed to reconcile with that?

Arthur brings out the cups of tea he has prepared (unsurprisingly, he didn't have any means of making hot chocolate), only to discover that Matthew is missing and Alfred is perusing one of his old photo albums.

"What are you doing?"

"S-Sorry!" Alfred says, shutting the album and tossing it aside. "I-I didn't mean to be nosy."

Arthur closes his eyes, opens them again, and finally sighs. "It's all right. I'd be curious if I were in your position as well. Where did your brother go off to?"

"He had to head out for a bit to get something. He'll be back soon."

He narrows his eyes skeptically at the boy but accepts his excuse for now. He sets the tray of tea down and begrudgingly sits next to Alfred on the couch. It'd be polite to make some small talk, and Arthur tries his best to maintain an air of civility.

"I apologize for how callous I've been today. This has all been…difficult for me, as I'm sure it has been for you as well."

Alfred shakes his head and grins. "I'm just happy to be here. It's good to see you. Don't get me wrong, this doesn't mean you have to act like you're my dad or anything or try to form some kind of bond with me—that's not why I wanted to come here. I just wanted to know, you know?"

Arthur nods.

"But for the record, if you want to go ice skating or build a gingerbread house, I'm all in," Alfred says.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"You look different in those pictures, by the way."

Arthur takes a sip of tea and asks, "How so?"

"Well, for starters, you were actually smiling!"

"I know this may be hard to believe, but I can feel emotions aside from those of contempt and grief on rare occasions."

Alfred doesn't say anything for a good minute or so, and then he adds, "You have to do what makes you happy—otherwise, what's the point of getting up out of bed every day? You like to read, right?"

Arthur scoffs into his teacup. "It depends on what I'm asked to read."

"Why does someone have to ask you to do it? Just do it for fun."

"If only things were that simple."

"I know how you feel—about being mad at your job and all. I don't like my job at the North Pole, where I'm forced to make toys all day and—"

"Can you stop with all of this North Pole rubbish? It isn't real, Alfred. You're confused and making up these ridiculous tall tales."

"No, I'm not! The North Pole is real and the elves there raised Mattie and me," Alfred insists, voice getting sharper. "You don't have any Christmas spirit in you, huh? That's why you're on the naughty list—because you don't believe."

"You're correct, I don't have any Christmas spirit," Arthur agrees. "I have no need for Christmas anymore. It's a nuisance."

"WHAT? Dude, Christmas is the best time of the year! We've gotta get your spirit back, but don't worry, I know just the thing! You've got to start singing. Nothing brings more Christmas cheer than some carols."

Oh, Lord.

"Come on, you can do it," Alfred encourages, jumping to his feet. " _Have a holly, jolly Christmas! It's the best time of the year! I don't know if there'll be snow, but have a cup of cheer!"_

Arthur squeezes his eyes shut and groans, pretending not to hear Alfred's off-tune cajoling.

"Your turn, Dad!"

"Don't call me that, for God's sake."

"Come on! You know the words, right?"

"Stop this right this minute, Alfred. I've had enough."

"I won't stop until you start singing."

"Alfred!"

Alfred rocks back and forth on his heels and continues the horrible song, _"Have a holly, jolly Christmas, and when you walk down the street, say hello to friends you know, and everyone you meet!"_

Where is Matthew? He seems to be the only person capable of controlling the boy.

"I don't hear you. Come on. Please? I haven't seen you for sixteen years of my life. Sing _one_ song with me."

Oh, so now he's guilt tripping him? Brat.

Under his breath, Arthur hurriedly sings with a grimace, _"Ho, ho, the mistletoe, hung where you can see…"  
_  
 _"Somebody waits for you, kiss her once for me! Oh, by golly, have a holly, jolly Christmas this year!"_ Alfred finishes with a laugh at the end. "See? Doesn't that make you feel better?"

"No."

"Huh…That usually works. Maybe we need another song."

"Please, don't."

 _"The moon is right. The spirit's up. We're here tonight, and that's enough. Simply having a wonderful Christmas time!"_

Then, suddenly, Alfred grabs him by the arm and drags him out the door against his will, pulling them down the sidewalk. "We need to sing it so other people can hear."

"Alfred, release me immediately! I'm going to call the police once and for all!"

But Alfred doesn't pay him any mind, catching on to his oftentimes empty threats. He simply continues prancing along, and bellows at the top of his lungs, " _We're simply having a wonderful Christmas time!_ "

Arthur hopes this is a nightmare. This _must_ be a nightmare.

"Hey, miss! Are you simply having a wonderful Christmas time?"

The woman laughs, probably because she's amused by Alfred's elf costume and replies, "I sure am."

"That's great! But my friend here doesn't believe in Christmas," Alfred notes.

"I'm not your friend," Arthur growls.

The woman furrows her brows and starts walking in the opposite direction. "Well, that's a shame. You can't force someone to believe in something, though."

"Hmm…I can still try though. Okay, Dad, let's get some hot chocolate mix and marshmallows. That's the next step to getting your Christmas cheer back."

"Alfred, I'm going home. Release me."

"Okay, in a minute. Let's go check out that store at the end of the block first."

Someone, please help him.

* * *

Matthew didn't think finding Comet and Cupid would be so difficult, and, furthermore, he didn't expect Central Park to be so huge! He could barely remember where he dropped the two of them off, but thankfully, they had attracted a large number of tourists, and everyone by the carriage tours had been going on and on about how incredible it was that there were real reindeer in the park for the first time. Some humans make such a big fuss over things. Gosh.

Unfortunately, he can't exactly take Comet and Cupid on the subway with him, so he has to settle on riding downtown on Comet's back. Flying is out of the question, so he moves at a steady trot back to Dad's apartment building. Twice, the NYPD try to stop him to question him, but Matthew is prepared and had the foresight to bring some of the memory-erasing powder Santa uses on the human children sometimes when they catch him coming down their chimneys in the middle of the night. Problem solved.

When he finally makes it back to Dad's place, it's pretty late, and even though he's fairly sure Dad wouldn't approve, he leads Comet and Cupid into the building, uses some more memory-erasing powder on the doorman, and just barely manages to squeeze the two reindeer into the elevator.

The door to the apartment is unlocked, which turns out to be fortunate because although Matthew knocks multiple times, he's not met with any response. He invites himself in and quietly brings the reindeer along before shutting the door again.

It's quiet, and for a moment, he's worried something is wrong or that Dad really did call the police, but those worries are put to rest when he walks into the living room and finds both Alfred and Dad asleep on the couch. The coffee table is littered with empty mugs of hot chocolate, and there's a half-finished gingerbread house lying before them.

"Well, we shouldn't wake them now," Matthew whispers to Comet and Cupid. "Since it looks like Alfred won't be sharing the guestroom with me after all, you guys can hang out there until Dad flips out and kicks us out tomorrow."

Comet and Cupid make affirmative neighing sounds and head off, and Matthew decides he'll sleep in the armchair across from the couch.

It seems that if there's one area Alfred excels in, it's at spreading Christmas cheer. That's the way it's always been and always will be.

But don't ask Matthew to ever admit it.

* * *

The ring of his cellphone is what wakes Arthur in the morning, and he rolls off the couch with a little groan, neck aching. Alfred and Matthew both appear to be sleeping, and the living room is now an absolute mess thanks to their little slumber party. He's going to have a lot of cleaning to do later.

Finding his cellphone is another issue entirely. It sounds like the ringing is coming from the kitchen—he must have left his phone on the counter when he was preparing tea last night. He gets to it on the final ring and hastily picks up, covering a yawn with his hand in the process.

"Hello?"

"Congrats, Arthur! It's a boy! Two boys!"

Arthur rubs his sleepy eyes and grumbles, "What are you talking about?"

"You're a father! Enjoy! I've gotta run—the office is busy, as usual, but let me know if I can be the godfather, okay? See ya!"

Gilbert hangs up, and Arthur waits to feel disappointed or angry, but that doesn't happen. If anything, he feels somewhat giddy, oddly enough. Francine's children— _his_ children. He thinks back to the three cups of hot chocolate he was forced to drink last night because of Alfred and can't help but wonder if maybe this is his chance to make things right. For the first time in sixteen years, he doesn't feel anguish or pain upon waking up and realizing he's all alone after having lost the only person he really ever loved. He's not alone now.

He also has an itch to write. Maybe it's from the sugar overdose he had yesterday.

He hears a disturbance in the guestroom and heads over there to make sure everything is okay, and though he was somewhat mentally prepared for Gilbert to tell him he's a father, he's not ready to handle the sight of two reindeer lying on their bellies in his guestroom.

Does he even want to know how this happened?

He can deal with all of this later. First, he has something more pressing to take care of.

When a groggy Alfred and Matthew get up and greet him, he doesn't bring up the reindeer or the phone call.

Instead, he turns to them and asks, "Would you boys like to go ice skating after breakfast?"

To which the answer is, of course, yes.

He doesn't know how to be a father or whether or not the North Pole is truly real, but what he does know is that, this morning, he's feeling something that might be akin to happiness, and that's good enough for him at the moment.

The rest can wait.


End file.
